Unadulterated Loathing
by theartistformerlyknownas
Summary: Twelve drabbles' worth of Cartman/Kyle, in all their morally reprehensible glory. Rating may go up, depending on prompts.
1. Perspective

**Author's Note: I would assume that Kyle has had to suffer through a million projects with Cartman as his partner. Alphabetical order, you see. On a more technical note, this is the first of twelve drabbles, prompted by randomly generated words. This is like, my favorite pairing freaking ever, so I'm super excited about starting this. Reviews are love, btw. Its hard to keep working on something when you don't really know what the response is. Anyway, here you go, and enjoy!**

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Lianne's always liked Kyle Brovlofski. When he was little, all big green eyes and even bigger hair, he'd tear around her house like a firecracker, leaping over the furniture, wrestling with her son and their two friends. Wild, certainly, but he'd be the only one of them to come to a screeching halt on the kitchen linoleum and tug at the hem of her dress, asking if she needed help with the dishes.

His only fault was that he fought with Eric.

They were both seventeen now, much too old for this kind of behavior, and she really had no idea what on earth they have to argue about. Eric's just like Kyle: intelligent, caring, kind; there's no reason why they shouldn't get along.

"Fuck you, Jew!"

Footsteps thud down the stairs, and she peers out of the kitchen in time to see Eric blocking the front door, arms crossed over his chest. Kyle stands a few inches away, fists trembling at his sides. "Cartman, move your fat ass."

"No way, douche. I'm not doing this goddamn project by myself." Eric intercepts Kyle as he goes for the doorknob, grabbing his wrist. "And if you weren't being such a pussy, we'd be finished by now."

"Well, that's just too fucking bad, isn't it?" Kyle tries unsuccessfully to pull out of Eric's grip. "All I know is I'm not doing a ten-minute presentation on why Joseph Stalin was, and I quote, 'the shit'."

"He _was_!"

Kyle's eyes narrow, and Lianne can see her son's fingers leaving red marks on his skin. "Whatever. I don't know why I ever expect anything even approaching decency out of you."

There's a silence as they stare one another down.

"Get out of the way, Cartman."

Eric sighs mockingly. "You're breaking my balls here, Kyle-"

"_Move_, dammit!"

"Fine." Eric gives Kyle's arm a final twist, then steps aside.

"Thanks for having me over, Mrs. Cartman," the other boy says loudly, and, with one last glare at Eric, shuts the door behind him.

Lianne retreats back to the sink, the potato she was peeling heavy in her hand. Those two. She wishes she could tell them to be nicer to one another, but Kyle has no obligation to obey her, and her son would probably just laugh in her face.

No one tells Eric Cartman what to do.

An image of a pair of furious green eyes surfaces in her mind, and a tiny smile flickers across her face.

Well, no one except Kyle Brovlofski.

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**Review, my duckies. Perhaps then an update will come sooner rather than later.**


	2. Lightning

**Author's Notes: Thanks everyone so much for the reviews! This super-fast update is for you guys. I really kind of like this one, even though it was hard to write. Coming up with believable Cartman plots is way harder than it sounds. Also, this isn't meant to be especially dark, but I know if I got in a relationship with someone I hated as much as Kyle and Cartman do, things wouldn't be exactly conventional. (Oh, and I kind of felt the random celebrity cameo was keeping in the spirit of the show.) **

**Review please, and let me know what you think!**

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It hadn't been a bad idea, all things considered. Idea, not plan, because Cartman very rarely planned things. He _had_ gone pretty in-depth during what he'd privately dubbed the "Tenorman Triumph", but that was a special circumstance. Screwing around (albeit brilliantly) was just a way to keep himself sharp; people can't compete with you if they're not even playing the same game.

The fact that he was seventeen and thinking like a fucking 'Nam commander completely failed to register. And why should it? His mindset hadn't really changed since he was in the fourth grade, and it had served him damn well thus far. Find what you want and get it, regardless what happens on the way. The ends always justify the means.

This particular end was mid to low-ranking evil, depending how you looked at it. Attempting to subjugate an entire race of people for his own purposes wasn't exactly the most inventive thing in the world, but it was still a hell of a lot better than doing calculus homework. Besides, he was a little rusty at this. He'd figured that leading a gigantic tribe of Pygmies (who just _happened_ to think he was a god) in a march on Kyle Brovlofski's Bar Mitzvah had been a pretty fitting end to the whole Coercing The Masses scam for a while. Do something too often and people start to expect it.

But what kind of man would he be if he didn't throw open the door when opportunity knocked? Certainly not Eric Cartman.

So when a back-to-basics, hippy-dippy Indian group showed up in South Park, bitching about their lost land and how some kinda buffalo messiah was supposed to lead them to paradise, he hadn't wasted a second. Infiltrating their little tribe had been easy, and from there it was maybe two weeks before he was running the whole thing, as an honorary "shaman" or some bullshit like that.

It was around this point when he started to wonder where Kyle was. He'd ordinarily be all up in his face by now, snarling like a pissed-off cat: _"Goddammit, Cartman, you're such a fucking dick! Couldn't you just let this go, just for a second? I don't know how you manage to convince people of all this bullshit, but nobody deserves to have their beliefs twisted, especially by _you_, you fat bastard!"_

Nope, that stupid Jew had taken his sweet time, and when he finally did show up (with Stan, Kenny, and Daniel Day-Lewis in tow), it was at the worst possible moment., Halfway through summoning a Thunderbird to eat the hearts of your enemies, while standing atop a mountain with lightning blazing behind you isn't the ideal time to be interrupted. But interrupt him Kyle did, and as the others did battle with the Thunderbird, the two of them fell to the ground, kicking, punching, biting. Just like old times. Except "old times" didn't find Cartman with four inches and a hundred-and-two pounds on Kyle. So neither of them were surprised when the smaller boy ended up his back, fingers digging into his opponent's shoulders.

Cartman dug a knee into Kyle's stomach and squinted down through the pounding rain. "Seriously, Kyle, give it the fuck up. Your scrawny Jewish ass has nothing on me."

There was a sudden shriek from down the mountain, and Cartman turned his head just in time to see the Thunderbird do a number on Kenny's spleen. Taking advantage of his enemy's inattention, Kyle jerked up from the mud and punched Cartman in the gut, leaning into his face. "Fuck. You."

Lightning burned across the sky again, and for a second everything was plain as day. The rain left long streaks on their muddy faces as they glared at eachother, shaking in the cold. Cartman finally managed to choke out a breath, curled his hands into the other boy's soaking t-shirt, and then, without warning, bit him hard on the lower lip.

Kyle made a noise suspiciously like a growl, and his hands tightened convulsively on Cartman's forearms. There was blood on his mouth as he turned the bite into a kiss.

Cartman laughed low in his throat and worked his tongue past Kyle's lips. Rain, mud and blood. It all tasted the same.

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**Review, duckies! Let's get another quick update, shall we?**


	3. Communication

**Author's Notes: If I fail my freshman year of college, I'm blaming it on this story. Writing it is so damn addictive! I really like this chapter, something about is just seemed very realistic to me. (Maybe I'm subconsciously trying to balance out the Thunderbird from the last bit.) Also, any guest appearance by Stan is a good guest appearance. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, by the way. I churned this out as fast as I could for you guys. **

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I've never been much a fan of the whole track-and-field thing. I mean, I love sports, baseball, basketball, football, you name it. But track's always seemed kind of, well, stupid. Running in a circle isn't how I'd want to spend my Friday night.

Guess Kyle doesn't feel the same way. I prop my sneakers up on the empty bleacher seat in front of me and watch him tear around Park High's shitty turf oval for what feels like the millionth time. Jesus. The wind picks up, sliding a crumpled Snickers Bar wrapper out from under my seat. I pull up my hood and snuggle deeper into my sweatshirt. Should have brought my English homework. Or earmuffs.

Kyle got really into track back in sophomore year, once he finished growing. When you're 5'9", basketball stops looking like fun and a lot more like suicide. Since then, its been the same drill every Monday: get out of the student council meeting (I was elected Spokesman for Athletics last year, and yeah, it's just as boring as it sounds), then head over to the stadium and watch the track team practice. I don't mind waiting around, and making Kyle walk home alone would be kind of a dick move.

"Stan!"

I open my eyes to see Kyle running up the steps of the bleachers two at a time, grinning and flushed. He always looks hilarious after practice: face as red as his hair, freckles bright across the bridge of his nose, like he's eight years old again. Call me faggy if you want (Cartman or Kenny definitely would), but its kinda cool to see him like that. Just a reminder that things haven't changed that much.

I stand up and swing my backpack over my shoulder, wincing as the strap creaks. If this thing lasts 'till the end of the semester, it'll be a freaking miracle. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah." He lifts the hem of his shirt and wipes beads of sweat from his upper lip. "Got everything?"

I nod, and we slam our way down the bleachers, leaping from bench to bench. "Your coach really gave you hell today, huh?" I say when we finally get down to the street.

Kyle chuckles. "Fuck yes. He's freaking out about regionals next month. We're lucky he didn't keep the team there all night."

"You'd be walking home alone, dude. Even 'super-best friends,'" I made little quote signs with my fingers, "have to draw the line somewhere."

"Nice to know you have my back, Marsh."

The sky's beginning to grey, and I can see the moon rising, bright and half-full as we leave the florescent track lights behind us. Kyle reaches around me and pulls my letterman jacket out of my backpack, draping it over his shoulders. He gives me an apologetic grin. "Sorry dude. It's too cold out for just a t-shirt."

I roll my eyes and zip my bag closed. "Whatever. Your sweaty ass is still getting the laundry bill."

"A little too excited about my 'sweaty ass', aren't we?"

There's a witty comeback on the tip of my tongue when we turn down a street that most definitely isn't ours. I raise an eyebrow, but Kyle shoves his hands in the pockets of my jacket, and refuses to make eye contact.

"Kyle?"

"_What?_" he snaps, a little too harshly. I guess I look hurt or something, because his eyes are almost instantly ashamed. "I, uh...sorry."

"No worries, dude." I shrug and turn towards the house in front of us. "But why are we at Cartman's?"

"The fat bastard swiped my Spanish notes from me in sixth hour," Kyle starts up the walk, smiling slightly when I trail behind. "I want 'em back."

"Dude, Cartman's fluent. He doesn't need your notes. Hell, he doesn't need that _class_."

Kyle's running shoes barely make a sound as he steps onto the porch. I lean against the railing and put my chin on my hands. A couple books are stacked next to the front door; _Intro To AP Psychology_ has a Post-It note stuck to the cover. Kyle picks them up and frowns at the yellow piece of paper, starting slightly when I come up behind him to read over his shoulder.

_Kike: You leave your shit here one more time, and I'm selling it on Ebay._

It's Cartman's handwriting, neat and precise. He trained himself to write like that in sixth grade. Something about forging doctor's notes.

I look over at Kyle, at the thin, angry line of his lips. I don't think he's noticed, but something's sandwiched between two of the books. A square of soft grey material pokes out between _Thus Spake Zarathustra_, and a chemistry binder. I reach over and tug out a shirt, one of Kyle's.

What the fuck is Cartman doing with this?

I open my mouth, but he's seen the shirt, and his eyes widen. He snatches it out of my hand, shoves the books under his arm, and heads back towards the sidewalk without a word.

"Dude, what the hell?" I have to run to keep up, and even then, I can barely grab his shoulder to spin him around. "Why's he got your stuff?" I ask. "And what did he mean, 'one more time'?"

Kyle's eyes are hard, glassy, and suddenly there's a million questions fighting to get out. _What's going on? Is there something you need to tell me? Are you okay?_ And maybe the most pressing: _W__hat crawled up your butt and died?_

Although I think that last one can probably wait for later.

"Stan, just drop it, okay?" He's flushed again, but not from running. Not this time. "I just left some stuff the last time we were all over here together. You remember, right?"

I do. And my best friend is full of shit.

"Kyle, dude," I squeeze his shoulder, "he has your shirt."

He stares at me for a second, face unreadable, then shrugs me off. We don't say anything after that.

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**Review, my duckies! I love you all!**


	4. Uncharacteristic

**Author's Notes: Wow. I'm a terrible, wicked author. No updates for two weeks? *hangs head* What with finals and coming home from Uni, I totally got distracted. But the good news is I have chapters five through nine planned out. Hurrah! (All your reviews were lovely little shafts of light during finals week, by the way ) Anyhow, I don't quite know how I feel about this chapter. I mean, talk about a bizarre prompt. And that one run-on sentence was a doozy to write; I kept wanting to add commas. :) But I do kind of feel for Kyle in this. Having someone in the hospital screws with you something fierce. Enjoy, my duckies!**

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It wouldn't have been such a big deal if it hadn't happened on finals week. Sure, watching your dad get rushed to the hospital isn't exactly a picnic at any time, but when you're two days away from the impending failure of a worth-thirty-percent-of-the-grade Spanish test?

You don't know how you manage to get through the rest of the day.

Stan walks you to Hell's Pass after school, chattering about nothing the whole time, trying to take your mind of what's going on. It's a nice gesture. This is a kid who turns green watching _ER_; you don't know if he's ever made it through a hospital visit without throwing up. Kenny and Cartman meet you there, the former wearing an apologetic smile, the latter looking royally pissed off. They're leaning against the side of Cartman's Escalade, sharing a cigarette.

"Sorry we're late," Kenny says drily, "I had to convince Beluga here that it was worth the effort."

Cartman grabs the cigarette and crushes it with his shoe. "Fuck off, mick."

"You guys didn't have to come." You shove your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, feeling about four years old. Support is all well and good, but you never asked for obligation.

Kenny shrugs and slouches towards the emergency room doors. "We know."

Finding your dad's room isn't so hard; attempting to look calm is. You feel Cartman's eyes (how do you know they're his?) boring into the back of your neck as you push open the door. Your family's there, and you submit gratefully to your mom's crushing hug. Screw being seventeen.

The doctor gives the four of you a nod. You smile back weakly. That guy's saved your life more times that you can count, _and_ given Cartman AIDs. You wonder if you shouldn't send him a thank-you note sometime.

He's saying something, glancing between his clipboard and your dad's sleeping form. You can't hear a word of it. Little things are eating away at your attention: Ike's wide, frightened eyes, the dusty leaves of the plastic plant near the window, the funny lurching noise Stan makes as he covers his mouth and runs for the bathroom, Cartman's bored grin, the curious glances Kenny keeps shooting at the crash cart in the corner.

One phrase manages to anchor in your brain though: _"Nothing serious."_

Your mom claps her hands to her mouth, almost incoherent with relief, and you feel Ike's little hand slip into yours.

_Nothing serious._

Kenny laughs and punches you on the shoulder; you barely notice Cartman roll his eyes and head off after Stan.

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You stay for a while longer, and when you all finally meet up in the parking lot (Stan looking alot worse for wear), you don't know what to say. Kenny squints at you in the dim light, and saves you the trouble. "Food, gents?" He pulls the door of the Escalade open and clambers into the back, dragging a limp Stan with him.

"Feet off the upholstery, you poor piece of shit," Cartman snaps as he slides into the driver's seat, not bothering with a seatbelt.

Kenny makes a face, then crosses his ankles primly. "Good enough for ya, douche?"

Cartman ignores him and raises an eyebrow at you. "Coming, Jew? Or are you waiting for a boxcar?"

"Jesus Christ, dude, lay off," Stan's voice filters weakly from the back.

And the super-best-friend comes through yet again. Thank you, Mr. Marsh.

You get in on the passenger's side and slam the door behind you as hard as you can. Cartman shoots you a dirty look, but keeps his mouth shut as he pulls out into the road. Good choice. You were this close to punching him in the face.

Streetlights flicker through the windows, cracked open more for the upholstery's benefit than Stan's. Cartman would flip his shit if he threw up in here. You chuckle, almost silently, but the driver's suspicious eyes still flick over to you. "What the hell's so funny?"

You shake your head. It's relieved laughter, that much you know. You also know it'll dissolve into tears if you don't get a hold of yourself.

"I, uh, I dunno..." You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, and your breath starts to hitch.

Goddammit, no. Not now. Not in front of him.

Cartman grunts and flips on the radio; Christmas carols start to filter through the car. A quick glance in my flipdown mirror sees Stan passed out on the backseat, and a thrilled Kenny listening to the invalid's iPod. You look back over to Cartman, at the one lazy hand resting on the steering wheel, and suddenly you hate him. Well, more than you usually do. Enough to make you want to send this whole car careening into a ravine. Or a shark tank.

Who the fuck is he to sit there and be bored by you? To try and get home in time to watch a History Channel special on Chairman fucking Mao? Fuck him.

"He's my dad, Cartman," you mutter.

His dark eyes don't leave the road for a second. "So?"

You sink in your chair, but the words just keep coming. "I mean, I know you couldn't care less and that you hate me and that's totally okay because I hate you more than I think it's possible to hate anyone but for God's sake can't you at least have the decency to leave me the fuck alone right now because while you may not give a shit about anyone, he's my dad and I can' t imagine living without him." You take a deep breath, and wonder why you always end up spilling your guts to this fat son of a bitch.

It's starting to get cold up front; you roll your window closed and drape your sweater wrong-way-round over your chest. Nat King Cole makes it through two more songs before Cartman looks over at you, face unreadable.

"Kyle," he says bluntly, "you're _such_ a pussy."

You have to bite your lip to keep from screaming at him. Then, suddenly, a hand on your knee. It feels like it's burning right through the denim, and you can't figure out what the hell it's doing there.

Cartman's staring at the highway again, and you know this is all you're gonna get. So you cover his hand with yours, dig in your nails hard enough to break skin, and do your very best not to cry.

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**Review, review, review. They're what keeps me going. It'll be a dark Christmas without them. :)**


	5. Hypocrite

**Author's Notes: Sorry about the lateness of the update. Relatives dropped in unexpectedly, I fell behind on shopping...Christmas is eating my sanity, you guys. Although, the reviews were glorious things. Thanks so much for all of them! Now, on the topic of this particular chapter, I have one or two things to say. First of all, for those of you who ditched this day in freshman lit in high school, _The Lady and the Tiger_ is a story debating wether human nature is good or evil, using the example of a young woman who must let her lover open two doors. One holds a lady (who he must marry, thus ensuring he will live, but can never be with his lover again), the other holds a tiger (which will eat him, keeping him from ever leaving his lover). The story ends on a cliffhanger, allowing the reader to choose the ending depending on how they view human nature. Deep, huh? Secondly, I'm sorry in advance for the godawful joke in this chapter. It's in terrible taste and shouldn't be repeated by anyone. **

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I've only got one class with him this year. By all rights we should have more, and we _did_ sophomore year, but that was before the whole _Lady and the Tiger_ fiasco. We were studying the, uh, "art" of the short story, and, in order to give the masterpiece its due, spent about two weeks delving into Stockton's most famous work. Of course, by "delving" I mean that Cartman and I wasted fourteen class periods screaming at one another, while everyone else texted under their desks. The lesson culminated in Cartman setting up what he called a "practical exam", and hiding a bobcat in my locker.

I guess that was the final straw for Miss Martin, who kind of wigged out, quit being an English teacher and ran off to a nunnery. That's right: Cartman and I traumatized a woman to the point where she gave up sex. Forever. After that, the school board must have pulled some strings or something, because we haven't had a discussion-oriented class together since.

But languages don't fall under the category of discussion-oriented, which is why I'm currently sitting in the second-to-last row of Señora Ortez's AP Spanish class, trying to block out the sound of Eric Cartman's voice. He's seriously the worst person to take a foreign language with, and not just because he already speaks said language fluently, either. No, he's decided that since he knows it, the teacher is wasting her time with everyone else; he does his best to send her off on random tangents, grinning like a Cheshire Cat when all our tests come back barely scraping a C.

It's what he's doing right now, in fact. I think they've somehow hit the subject of the Mexican economy, because Señora Ortez looks pretty pissed off. Her native country's financial issues are a bit of a sore spot.

Craig heaves a sigh and lets his head drop with a thud onto the desk next to me. I feel for him. We're only fifteen minutes into the period, but I think everybody's ready to go. This is getting ridiculous; there's a test on Thursday, and I'm not gonna try and teach myself an entire chapter again. My pronunciation's already shot.

I dig around in my backpack for my phone and flip it open under my desk. Finding Cartman's number takes a while (seeing him in person is _plenty_, the last thing I need to do is call the bastard) but I manage to fire off a text pretty quickly.

**Quit distracting her, fatass. I'm not failing another test because of you.**

Five seconds later, he's got his Blackberry out and is texting me back, never once breaking eye contact with the teacher. Anyone else would have their phone confiscated, but, because he's him, Señora Ortez lets it slide. There's no justice in the universe.

My pocket buzzes.

**How many Jews can u fit in2 a VW bug?**

That fucker...

Another buzz.

**Five. 2 in front 2 in back and 1 in the ashtray.**

It's only when my pencil snaps in half that I realize I was even gripping it at all. My thoughts are a buzzing jumble, and I can feel my hands shaking. He's dead. Completely and one-hundred-percent. I get to my feet, and, ignoring Craig's questioning glance, throw my phone at the back of Cartman's head. It connects with a loud, satisfying crack.

"'_Ey!_ Goddammit, Kyle!"

Señora Ortez must finally be at the end of her rope with Cartman, because she slams a hand down on her desk and glares at us over her glasses. "Brovlofski! Cartman! La oficina del director! Ahora!"

Well, shit.

I scoop my phone up off the floor as I pass the chalkboard and shove it roughly back into my jeans. Butters sends me a sympathetic smile from the first row, but I pretend not to see. I'm about to let myself be calmed down. By the time I shut the classroom door behind me, Cartman's already halfway down the hall. I narrow my eyes and run after him; he's not getting away that easily. I wait until we've rounded the corner near the stairwell, then I pounce.

His back slams into the wall hard enough to make me want to wince. Or would, if I wasn't seriously contemplating cutting off his balls with pinking shears.

He grins, and doesn't even try to struggle. "Really, Kyle? Jew jokes? You might want to re-think what turns you on."

I gape at him. The bastard's arrogance is mind-boggling. I open my mouth to hurl back some witty response when I make the mistake of meeting his eyes. And I suddenly can't say a word. There's something there, a confusion, an uncertainty even, that stops me dead in my tracks. That's it. I'm a goner. Because call me a freak if you like, but seeing anything even _approaching_ venerability in Eric Cartman is better than a blow job.

I'm on him in a second, crushing my lips to his. He makes a surprised, not entirely displeased sound into my mouth and curls his fingers into my belt loops, pulling my hips tight against him. Fast reflexes on this one, I'm telling you. As if to drive the point home, he catches my tongue between his teeth, biting down hard. Instead of yelping and pulling away, like I probably should, I lean into him, digging my fingers into his forearms hard enough to bruise.

Yeah, he's an evil-minded bigot. Yeah, I like to think I'm somewhat morally-grounded human being. And yet here I am, nipping at his jaw and grinding into him like there's no tomorrow. Just like I always do.

Believe me, I'm hating myself enough right now without thinking about the stupid joke still sitting on my phone.

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	6. Debate

**Author's Notes: I know, I know, this one is wretchedly short. But not without reason. I just can't see Cartman being that expansive on this particular subject. Despite the brevity though, I think this chapter may be my favorite. Also, thank you guys so so much for the reviews! Everything from the "please continue"s to the epic replies are totally appreciated, and really encouraging. **

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You can count the number of times you've won, really _won_, an argument with Kyle on one hand. It's not that you fuck up or anything, but that little bitch never sticks around long enough for you to strike the killing blow. Things start to go your way, and he takes off, throwing up his hands and muttering some variation of "you ignorant asshole", before stomping away to lick his Jew wounds.

The subjects of your little "debates", as Kenny calls them, don't matter. They never do. All that matters is that you know more than Kyle does. Hell, you could be arguing about the finer points of being raised a kike, and you'd still have more to say on the subject. And you'd be right, too. Back when you used to have classes with him, you two drove the teachers crazy, arguing about everything from Emily Dickinson's sexual preferences (It's right there in her _name_), to whether Jay Gatsby was "the quintessential postmodern man" (Kyle's faggy idea, not yours). Not like that shit's important anyway, but you never dreamed of stopping. What would be the point of that? Kyle's always just as free to shut his mouth as you are, and he sure as hell skips out on that option.

It's as good as being challenged to a duel, and Eric Cartman never backs down from a fight. Well, verbal ones at least. Fights entailing actual damage to life and limb are considered carefully, and usually weaseled out of. But nevermind about that. Kyle Brovlofski's very existence is an insult, and you've done your best to deal with it for the past twelve years. Some sort of medal should be forthcoming.

Of course your methods have, um, _evolved_ over time. Because locking someone in a confessional with three komodo dragons can only do so much. Because you've never been able to really shut him up the way you want. Because he's Kyle, and you hate him.

Little moments are what you live for: the huffy "you were right"s, the half-assed concessions, the truces you both know only hold until someone gets new ammunition. Anytime his pride gets crushed like a bug under your sneaker.

And when you've got him pinned, shaking and moaning underneath you, unable to form a sentence, let alone a rebuttal?

Delicious.

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	7. Confirmation

**Author's Notes: A super-fast update for all of you, my duckies! I went to a drive-in movie theatre last night and damn if I didn't get inspired. Oh, and sorry for the vague traces of Kenny/Stan. I really couldn't resist. There should be more fic of them. Gobs more.**

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The only drive-in movie theatre within fifty miles of South Park is Starz, a piece of shit 70's relic with two screens that backs up to one of the Reservations. A cute fake redhead named Leslie runs the projector, cops avoid the place, and if you ask just right, they'll give you free Milk Duds with your popcorn. It plays grindhouse stuff you've gotta see to believe, and there's no better place to hook up in the entire glorious state of Colorado.

Too bad I'm not here alone.

We're all stretched out in the back of Stan's pickup, buried under what feels like thirty quilts (courtesy of Kyle), passing around a bottle of Baileys (courtesy of Cartman). _Lesbian Chainsaw Vampire Vixens III_ flashes across the huge screen to our right, and I give myself a mental pat on the back for getting us the best seats in the house. Sure, we're not technically on the property, but Leslie won't tell anybody. A couple of winks can go a long way.

I lean back against the cab and pull one of the blankets up to my chin, wincing as one of the Vampire Vixens' heads goes flying across the screen. Much to my disappointment, they hadn't turned out to be lesbians, as the lack of a hyphen in the title led me to believe. At this point I'm pretty sure the chainsaws are the lesbians. I think.

"Ken?" There's a light clink as Stan taps me with the half-empty bottle. "Want some?"

I pull it out of his loose grip and take a swig, grinning a little when his forehead drops onto my shoulder. Poor bastard never could hold his liquor. It's _Baileys_, for Chrissake!

"How's Ky?" he asks, face pressed into my jacket. I sigh. They had some sort of spat last week, and things have been awkward since. Honestly, those two have the biggest bromance going on; instead of just giving eachother man-hugs and forgetting about it, they make up like a pair of chicks, all weird silences and long looks. It's really fucking gay. And this is coming from a guy who actually sleeps with other dudes.

"I think he's asleep," I say, and crane my neck to see around Cartman. Kyle's lying at the very end of the truck bed, curled up under a couple blankets, breathing evenly. Yup. Out like a light.

I turn back to Stan, but he's gone too, breathing heavily into my shoulder. Whatever. I'm sure they'll figure it out eventually.

I'm trying to settle back into my original position without waking him when a flicker of movement catches my eye. Kyle sits up groggily, runs a hand through his hair, yawns, and flops down again, cheek resting on Cartman's leg.

My mouth drops open. I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it!

Cartman shifts a little, but doesn't seem to notice my eyes drilling into his back. Oh-_ho_! Fucking idiot's been denying it to me for ages, but this is all I need to see. I mean, its been obvious (at least on Cartman's end of things) since eighth grade, disgustingly obvious since tenth. There's really no way for me to say how long Kyle's been in on it; still, if I had to guess, I'd say around last July, the summer before senior year.

I know it's kinda creepy that I can ballpark something like that, but I can't help it. I notice things. Chef used to say it was because I was blessed with "othermindedness", whatever that is. I think it's because I'm watching for meteorites/trucks/sharp things with my name on them, and other people just get in my line of vision.

Of course, I'd be willing to bet I'm the only person who's got their number. _They_ probably don't know what the fuck's going on between them. All I know is that they've been, if anything, even bigger jackasses to one another since this thing started. It kind of makes sense when you think about it: the more you learn about someone, the more there is to hate. I'm sure they're loving that. And it's the perfect cover, too.

Cartman would be royally pissed if anyone found out, but in the end it'd be the ultimate victory. He'd be able to show everyone that he finally beat "the Jew". I don't think anything in the world would make that asshole happier.

But Kyle? Kyle would die. He's kind of a proud guy, and I can't really see him bouncing back from unutterable humiliation very well. Everything he'd ever said against Cartman would be completely moot; he'd be in league with the enemy. Stan would loose his fucking mind, and no one would be able to take Kyle's word on morality again.

I tilt my head back to get a better view of one of the Vampire Vixens' three-story rack, and realize that I've just thought what Kyle probably thinks every night.

Jesus Christ, I'm glad I'm not him.

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	8. Excuse

**Author's Notes: This one has kind of a weird format. I wanted to do something set in the past, but the word-generating gods haven't given me anything to work with. So I decided to get creative. (And we all know how well that always works out.) The first part of this is the first time Kyle even entertains the thought of Cartman as anything but the lowest form of humanity (I want to say age 15). And the second half takes place in the time period established by the previous seven chapters. You're all quite smart, so I don't know why I feel the need to explain this to you... Maybe I'm explaining it more to myself. Also, thank you for the reviews. You're glorious, all of you.**

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Sitting on top of someone you hate, pinning his arms to the carpet and screaming in his face is, contrary to popular belief, very therapeutic. Of course, so is squeezing one of those stress balls. But it's only half as satisfying.

"For the last time, Cartman, _shut up_! I'm so fucking sick of you ragging on my family! Shut your mouth, or I'll fucking shut it for you!"

I throw all my weight down onto his abdomen (maybe I can crush the one kidney he has left), doing my best to keep him from shoving me off. Over on the couch, Stan rolls his eyes and helps himself to my abandoned bowl of Pringles.

"You know Kyle," Cartman says, drawing out my name untill it sounds like a purr, "it's this kind of behavior that makes everybody hate Jews. You're so fucking butthurt all the time." His shoulders shift under my hands, and he's got that lazy gleam in his eyes, just stringing me along. "Lose six million people and all of a sudden everyone's out to get you."

I can see Stan wince. "Dude, weak."

Cartman lays back on the Marsh's living room carpet and grins at me. "Quit bitching."

My mouth is hanging open, and I'm sure my fingernails are leaving marks on his arms. All I can think about is how far it is to the knife drawer in Stan's kitchen. I hate it when this happens. He'll say something so damn insane that I can't think of anything to throw back. Shit.

And that's when he moves up against me. Nothing big, just a shift of the hips, but for some reason it's enough to send blood rushing to all the wrong places.

I roll off him with a choked sort of gasp, eyes wide. Cartman raises an eyebrow as I take off up the stairs two at a time, one hand slapped across my mouth.

"What'd you do to him?" Stan's voice asks faintly.

My breath's coming too fast for me to hear Cartman's excuse, and I barely make it to the bathroom before I throw up.

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Give Craig Tucker two minutes with a hairpin and he can open any padlock devised by man. It's pretty much common knowledge. But, being the contrary bastard that he is, he's taken at least five to jimmy open the back window of his dad's office. Kenny punches him on the shoulder as Stan, Token, Cartman, Clyde and I all finally climb through, trying to keep our voices down. The "Greatest Game of All Time" had been initiated by Stan earlier that week, when he decided that hide-and-seek deserved to graduate to the status of an all-terrain sport. Craig had volunteered the cubicles of the local newspaper, and we were set.

Token scratches the back of his neck and looks around at the maze of desks. "Sweet. Not a bad idea, Stan."

"Dude, I don't _have_ bad ideas," Stan laughs, unlacing his sneakers and dumping them in a corner. "But I'll be It first." He leans on a nearby copier, and buries his head in his arms.

_"One...Two...Three..."_

Everyone scatters, leaping over desks, dodging around plastic plants. Clyde ducks into a side office, and crawls under the huge leather chair. There's a metallic clang from across the room; I look over just in time to see Kenny squeezing his narrow form into a ventilation shaft. If he suffocates, this place is going to stink for days.

_"Fifteen...Sixteen...Seventeen..."_

I squint through the dim light, a little disoriented. I'm god-awful at this game. The guys are all invisible, and Stan hasn't even reached twenty yet.

_"Twenty-five...twenty-six...twenty-seven..."_

Oh. Nevermind. I sidle around the edge of a cubicle, and then make a break for a nearby supply closet. Not exactly the most brilliant of hiding places, but I can always hit Stan with a broom or something. I close the door gently behind me, willing it not to make a sound, and back into the darkness.

"No way, Anne Frank. Hide your skinny ass somewhere else."

I spin around, bumping into someone in the tiny confines of the closet. Cartman. It has to be. He's been using that same cologne since we were fifteen.

"What are you doing in here, fatass?"

"Well, Kyle," he stage-whispers, "I _thought_ I was hiding from your faggy boyfriend. And if I'm going to, it'll be without you. Jews tend to get caught." I feel his hand in the small of my back, nudging me towards the door. "Thanks for dropping by."

"Cartman, get _off!_" I twist away and stumble into a bunch of mops, somehow managing to get my foot stuck in a bucket full of water. Joy. I can barely see him, even with my eyes adjusting to the dark, so all I have is the vague sense that he's taken a step towards me.

"This, right here, is a perfect example of why I fucking hate you." He's mocking me, but there's something in his tone I can't define.

"Back at you, assho-" I flinch as he puts a hand flat against my chest and pushes me back against the mops. Everything's too close all of a sudden. Too close, too hot, too tight.

"Shut your mouth, Jew."

And before I can take another breath, his mouth is on mine. It's rough and it's messy, and I don't stop him. I don't even try. Nope, I just stand there like the idiot I am, and then kiss him back as hard as I possibly can. I don't know who bites first, but I swear I can taste blood.

It's like Invasion of the Bodysnatchers or something, because the Kyle I know would never do this. Ever. Goddamit, I'm losing my mind.

Because there's no reason for me to be breathing in harsh pants as Cartman starts on my neck. There's no reason for letting my head fall back to give him better access. There's no reason for grabbing him through the front of his jeans.

There _are_ no reasons for anything I do with Cartman. Only excuses.

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